


You Should Probably See A Therapist About This

by solipsist



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Violent Thoughts, unhealthy crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsist/pseuds/solipsist
Summary: He's probably crazy. Lots of girlfriends have told him that. An ex wife told him he takes after his mother too much.But who is she to tell him that? When Jeremy says he's going to gut her, he's not serious about it. At least Jeremy stands on the right side of glass barriers.If he's so crazy, someone would've taken him down long ago. His mother would've killed him. An ex girlfriend would call the police. He'd lose a court case.If he’s crazy, he’s sane enough not to get caught.This marks the difference between him and every patient here.
Kudos: 10





	You Should Probably See A Therapist About This

“You’re thirty eight years old.”

Correct. Jeremy Blaire is thirty eight years old.

“You’ve been divorced twice.”

Incorrect. He had been married and divorced once. The second divorice his mother misremembers belongs to his half-brother, who is now on his third wife. 

“And you’ve got a girlfriend but made no plans to get your life back to normal. Really, it’s embarrassing.”

Incorrect. Jeremy had a girlfriend. But as of last night, she is rotting in a heap of environmentally friendly compost and Jeremy has made plans to see a therapist at the request of his sister.

Jeremy says nothing, though his mind runs through the multiple relationships and marriages his mother has gone through for as long as he can remember. The valium makes the air cottony and it’s harder to recall exact details. But it’s enough knowing that her body count is higher than his.   
He steps out into the hallway. Jeremy is on the verge of tears and is wondering if he could cut off the last of the cellular signal he has access to, just to avoid the judgement of his mother. 

“Jeremy?”

“... and leave your message at the tone.”

It hangs in the void. 

A pitiful: “Beep.”

Both lines are very uptight now. Jeremy hopes to God she believes it

“Jeremy Blaire, what do you think you’re doing?”

Her voice is disappointed, not angry. 

Jeremy’s face contorts into a grimace, his voice cheery, “I gotta go, mom!”

He hangs up. His sister has once privately confided that she wishes she could slip cyanide in Mother’s food and spare everyone the ongoing misery. Jeremy wonders if his sister would be willing to do the same to him. The next garbage pick-up will be next week Thursday and the stench of death in a bag will be blamed on a patient. 

The sound of the click hangs in a void. Indacasant lights in the hallway drive home some dreamworld comfort. Jeremy is suspended in time, but he can’t remember how long. He does remember when the extended moment is broken. Employee is on the other end of the hallway, sniffing to himself, leaning on wooden paneling, a fist closed around blood, bone, shattered nose. Employee takes a shuddering breath. Employee shuffles down, closer to where Jeremy stood, holding his cellular. 

A minute.

Employee’s eyes are red and rubbed raw. Their eyes connect. Blood trickles through fingers, blood drips into fat puddles on the floor. A horrible sympathy wells up in Jeremy. A handkerchief is offered. And the sympathy dissipates as red blooms into the silk handkerchief, effectively ruining it forever. 

A thin layer of disgust settles. 

“You can keep it.”

Employee shrugs. Jeremy wishes he was the one that broke Employee’s nose. Silence reigns on as Employee backs away and breaks off into a run - presumably in the direction of the medical bay. It’s still early in the afternoon, but Jeremy has decided this event was enough to throw off the rest of his day. He returns to the environmentally friendly compost heap. She’s easy to dig back up. In two cutting motions, red-brown coagulated blood oozes from the corpse. Something feels like she’s faking it, although it’s impossible and the majority of her face has been broken open from stab wounds, but Jeremy shoots her twice with a silenced revolver - which makes him feel very powerful and masculine.

He wants the name of Employee. He wants the office number of Employee. He wants to break into Employee’s office. He wants to fuck Employee until he cries and cut open his throat to watch blood spurt out into an arc and splatter across clean white walls and onto flooring with wood so dark it’s nearly black. 

Jeremy is still kneeling next to the compost heap. 

Meat, blood, and bone has been reported to yield highest quality crops. 

He’s not sure why he knows this.

His day is still ruined. There’s no hope of getting back onto schedule. Jeremy shoots up some mystery liquid in his office. Feeling great, he calls a girl he knows wants to fuck him and all is well. In the morning, she’ll tell him he looks like shit and he’ll kick her out with no breakfast for that. His mother has left him eight messages and Jeremy knows the girl is right. The sixth message threatens suicide and his mother knows he won’t care but will still express concern as a matter of principal. The eighth cooly tells him to take all the time he has to respond because she knows he’s busy. 

There is nothing Jeremy knows about Employee. His face, covered by hands and blood, escapes Jeremy. The ID badge stuffed away in some pocket. 

Ghosting hallways, doorways, break rooms provide nothing. 

Jeremy learns of pregnancies, a dying man’s request, violent fights, escalating nosebleeds and migraines for those working in close proximity to the engine. This isn’t very interesting to Jeremy. Deaths in Murkoff happen weekly, each one he hears about in morning agendas. Requests are amusing but never carried out. Cancer has been reported as a side effect to the projector. Plans have been made to blame cigarettes should any accusations come to light. 

And nobody gives him what he wants. 

A week. Lunch with Mother. Love letters unburied in a patient’s room. Jeremy decides he loves Employee. This revelation is not particularly earth-shaking. He loves Employee the same way a soldier loves his anonymity in forgien countries. Fantasies bleed into unmentionable dreams that Jeremy recreates with senseless verbs written down in a notepad that once served as an agenda. Girl that wants to fuck him comes back. Girl that wants to fuck him is killed. Jeremy discovers that decapitation is nowhere as easy as the movies make it out to be. After sawing at the neck for hours, she is thrown out into the environmentally friendly compost pile, mostly untouched and in somewhat recognizable shape. Jeremy decides it would be in bad taste to save the love letters confiscated from the patient and perfect to give to Employee. 

The on-duty nurse informs Jeremy that Employee's name is Waylon Park.   
The records inform Jeremy that Waylon Park has been working under him for two years as lead programmer on various projects - the current being the Morphogenic Engine. He has special needs, a wife and two kids, and is allergic to antiseizure drugs along with morphine. His arrest record includes drug possession and assaulting a police officer. His office is one building away and ends in an even number. 

The engine is months behind. He knows it's not Waylon's fault. He has no plan to kill Waylon, either. The idea of using his penknife and opening up Waylon's neck plays over and over again on the walk there. 

Office is unlocked. 

He's young. He's a dirty blonde. The bandages on his nose have not come off yet. The last time he shaved was three days ago. The silk handkerchief is brown with dried blood and tacked up to the corkboard. A photo of two cats sleeping together, no family. A coat belonging to Andrew is draped on a chair. All of these details take too long to understand, yet reveal absolutely 

"Can I... help you?"

"Park."

Bewilderment.

"Yea ... u-up.. That's me. Can I help you?"

Jeremy could lock the door behind them. No charges would ever be pressed. Waylon would be ruined before he was even thought of a lawyer. Jeremy feels like he must be utterly insane. 

"The Morphogenetic Engine."

Bewilderment falls to frustration. 

"Oh for - did Hammel send you? This whole thing? I swear to God it's his fault."

"Oh."

"So this fuckin' guy, right? He's been making me and all of the other programmers on the dev team scrap the entire project and redo it. And we can't even look back at the old program for reference because he's deleted it all. So whatever problem you've got, take it up with Hammel. I don't even know why. I don't. Even know why! One day he comes down here and -!!"

The rush of emotion is not a total turn off. 

Waylon waves his hand in a grand gesture of exasperation. 

"Everything?"

"The whole thing."

I love you very much and I think we could have a future together if we tried. I know you're not busy tomorrow night. You should go out to dinner with me. We should talk. I'd like to see how much it would take to knock out a big guy like you. 

Jeremy says nothing. He stares down at Waylon, who has abandoned the idea of staying in his place altogether.  
The idea of treating Waylon gently is greatly displeasing. He's not sure what he's doing here and the fault of the situation rests on him, making Jeremy feel worse by the second. He got the answer he asked for. But he continues to stand in the doorway. 

"You're... doing a great job. Despite all that. So, uh, keep it up. And there might be a promotion in line for you."

"Promotion for wh-"

With the door closing behind Jeremy, Waylon's voice is cut off. 

Jeremy ghosts the hallways to his office before writing a lengthy love letter to Waylon, copied word for word from a letter taken from Gluskin's room. Darling is better off never seeing them.


End file.
